thirty-five

As we were finishing dinner, my husband asked me if it had been a good birthday. I replied that it had been, of course it had. We were in Europe, for one thing, which was more than I had any right to ask for. And we had spent the afternoon touring a spectacular villa (Villa d'Este, more on that later), one of my favorite things to do. It had been introspective for me in a way that was just beginning to distill in my mind and seemed oddly appropriate for this birthday. Everywhere I had looked, all day long, as I explored with my children and nieces and husband--a much different production than we had been in Newport, RI, for my thirtieth birthday, when I was pregnant for the first time and touring the estates of Belle Epoque robber-barons with a large group of friends--I had seen Classical depictions of womanhood and fertility, undeniably idealized when compared with the flesh-and-blood incarnation staring back at them. Now I was sitting in the shadow of the Temple of Vesta, guardian of hearth and home, feeding my baby and eating molten chocolate cake.

All these thoughts and observations poured out, a more complete, rambling answer than Steve may have been looking for. "Sounds like thirty-five," he said.